


How It Should Have Ended (At Least in my Opinion)

by kazumakrazy



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Gay, Honestly one of my faves, Hope it isnt terrible, I love Natby, M/M, My First Fanfic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazumakrazy/pseuds/kazumakrazy
Summary: A slow burn fic for all the Natsby lovers who also believe that our boys deserved a happy ending or at least a better one than what Fitzgerald gave them.





	How It Should Have Ended (At Least in my Opinion)

I knew that Daisy wasn’t coming, I knew that I had to take his heart into my hands and smash it like a soda bottle, and I hated myself for it.  
“Gatsby,” I spoke softly, “Daisy isn’t coming.”  
He looked at me with an air of complete disbelief, the tears began to well up in his eyes, making them sparkle under the moonlight. He shook his head at me, as if dismissing the possibility of her not coming altogether, I sighed, having to convince myself to break his heart every few seconds.  
“Gatsby, come on, I know you understand what I am saying is true, please listen to me.”  
He openly sighed, letting a single tear fall from his eye. The desire to wipe it off, to dry his tears and tell him that everything would be fine; to tell him anything – everything - to see his magnificent smile return to his face, it was overwhelming.  
“Gatsby,” I croaked to him, my voice breaking, “I’m trying to help you, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I cannot stand seeing her break your heart any longer. Gatsby, please.”  
He croaked out a sound, something that sounded like “old sport”, dropping down into a squat, I looked him square in the eyes.  
“Gatsby, I know you loved her – love her – but you cannot go on in this sorry state.” I sighed, looking down at my palms; this was going to be a lot harder than I had anticipated. “Come, Gatsby, lets go inside, into my place, you need to get some sleep.”  
I stood up and waited for him to do the same – he didn’t move. Sighing, I pulled his arm in order to raise him up. In feeling his arm underneath the expensive satin suit, I felt my voice catch. Shaking my feelings away, I slowly lead him back to my house, onto my sofa. All throughout this short trip, not one syllable fell from his beautiful mouth, not one sound exited his lips. Now situated on the couch, I brought him a glass of water and handed it towards him. His hand didn’t move. Sighing, I crouched down beside him and pressed the glass to his lips.  
“Come on Gatsby, you need to drink! You’ll make yourself sick at this rate.”  
Lifting the glass up, I let a slow trickle of water enter his mouth. At first, it looked as if he were going to refuse to drink, but slowly, I noticed him swallowing the water. Instantly, I noticed the intimate position we were in, and I felt flush. I quickly shook my head slightly, in order to shake all of the inappropriate thoughts from my mind.  
“Come now Nick,” I thought to myself, “Now is not the time for these kinds of thoughts, not when he so clearly needs a friend.”  
Noticing that the glass was empty, I slowly took it away from his lips and set it down on the glass coffee table situated beside me. Without the water, his face fell back into a mask of normalcy, the mask that says “look everything is fine, I’m definitely not dying inside.” Realizing finally that, if I wanted something done, I would have to do it myself, I got up and pulled Gatsby up with me. I walked him over to the bedroom and sat him down.  
“Can you undress, Gatsby?”  
With no reply, I bent down and took his black leather shoes off, slightly scratching the pristine polish in the process. Sighing deeply at my error, I stood up. Slipping the coat off his shoulders was a slightly more strenuous task for my heart, at this point, it was beating so fast I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had been having a heart attack. Once I had successfully removed the coat from his body, I slowly unbuttoned his vest. With my heart in my throat, I removed the silk vest as well. I knew I had to take his shirt off in order to prevent the destruction of the expensive fabric, but I could barely bring myself to do it. With a moment’s hesitation, though it felt like forever, I slowly began to unbutton his shirt. Every time my hands glanced over his chest my throat caught. Eventually, the shirt had been removed and I folded all his clothes neatly onto my bedside chair. In laying him down gently, I discovered a tenderness I never knew existed inside me. I tucked him under the blankets and turned off the overly ornate lamp on the bedside table. I stood up to leave and began to walk towards the door; I hesitated only slightly to turn back and look at him, curled up in my bed. This is not how I imagined his first time in my bed to go.  
“Goodnight Gatsby,” I softly said from the door frame.  
Stepping outside of the room and closing the door seemed to take ages, but once it was closed, I breathed a sigh of relief. I ran and grabbed myself a drink from the cupboard, it was whiskey that I chose to cure my ailment. After a small glass and what felt like years of just staring off into nothingness, I grabbed my spare blankets from the hallway cupboards, shook the mothballs off them and went back to the couch in order to get a few precious hours of sleep before the new day managed to start itself in the morning.  
Sleep, though the restless kind, was something I got some of during that night. The next morning, at around six, I rose from the couch, satisfied, though not content, with the amount of sleep I had gotten that night. I walked to my kitchen and began to prepare breakfast for the both of us. In my meager fridge, I had managed to scrounge together some bacon, eggs and toast, knowing of the ornate breakfasts Gatsby would have been used to having, I hoped that my offering would be enough to satisfy his hunger. I walked into the room, after rapping on the door slightly to let him know I would be entering the room. As I walked in, I noticed he was no longer in the bed, in a frenzied few seconds, I frantically looked around the room in order to find him. He was sitting in the chair, which he had somehow maneuvered to be facing the window.  
“Gatsby,” I called quietly, “I made you some breakfast.”  
As I came around the chair, I noticed the deep bags underneath his eyes, he looked as if he had not slept a wink during the night. He seemed to be staring out my bedroom window, watching, waiting for what I could only assume was Daisy. His eyes sparkle in the early morning sun, but there was still a dead look to them, a look that pierced through any sense of happiness one may have had. I placed the tray of food upon his lap and looked at him with an expression that I believed to be imploring him to eat. He did not eat. He didn’t even glance down at the tray placed on his lap.  
“Gatsby, you need to eat. You need to keep your strength up.” I waited for a few minutes for him to start eating, he still didn’t move. “Okay Gatsby, I will force the food down your throat if I have to.”  
I looked at him inquisitively for a few seconds, since he made no move towards the food, I picked up the fork and grabbed a small piece of egg with it. Moving it slowly up to his mouth, I pressed it open slightly and put the food inside of it. I watched him chew and swallow the egg, guessing that he was just running on autopilot, I kept feeding him small chunks of food, with occasional sips of water sporadically placed in between. Throughout this entire process, I was trying desperately to keep my mind from wandering into inappropriate places. The way his slightly stubbled chin moved when he chewed, the way his eyes still managed to twinkle, the messy unkept look of his hair. It was all so beautiful to me. Sighing slightly, I moved the tray from his lap and placed it on the bed next to us. I sat down at the foot of the chair and sighed, I guessed that I wasn’t going to work that day. After a few minutes of sitting in melancholy silence, I picked up the phone and called my bond office in order to tell them I was sick for the day. Even though they sounded annoyed, they accepted my feigned illness as an excuse and wished me a speedy return to good health. Returning to the bedroom, I noticed the expression on Gatsby’s face had changed. Glancing out the window, I saw a figure stomping through his rose bushes. As I glanced closer, I noticed that the figure was none other than George Wilson. I flung the blinds of the window shut as a shot rang out across the yard.


End file.
